


No Mercy For the Living

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Character Death, Depression, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 23:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: They’re working on a solution to bring back magic when it happens. Not Julia’s sparks, or any of the other stuff she can do that nobody else can. They’re - Quentin, Julia, Josh, and Kady - in the library working on one of Dean Foggs essay assignments.Quentins reaching up, arm stretched out, standing on the tips of his toes, when all the air comes rushing out of him in an angry gasp. He falls to the ground, knocking books off the shelf on the way, most of which come tumbling down on his head and shoulders. He’s reaching up, grabbing at his chest and throat, gasping for air. The taste of iron floods his mouth as he bites down on his tongue and his knees crash down on the ground with an aching crack.Someone rushes up behind him, kneels next to him and rubs his back, says something he can’t hear.





	No Mercy For the Living

They’re working on a solution to bring back magic when it happens. Not Julia’s sparks, or any of the other stuff she can do that nobody else can. They’re - Quentin, Julia, Josh, and Kady - in the library working on one of Dean Foggs essay assignments.

Quentins reaching up, arm stretched out, standing on the tips of his toes, when all the air comes rushing out of him in an angry gasp. He falls to the ground, knocking books off the shelf on the way, most of which come tumbling down on his head and shoulders. He’s reaching up, grabbing at his chest and throat, gasping for air. The taste of iron floods his mouth as he bites down on his tongue and his knees crash down on the ground with an aching crack.

Someone rushes up behind him, kneels next to him and rubs his back, says something he can’t hear.

He’s not even sure what it is; but it’s like something’s ripping and tearing at his lungs, and it radiates through to his heart like an electric shock. Or like something’s stabbing him and digging around for something that they can’t quite find.

He falls forward, trying to grab fistfuls of the ground beneath him, gasping and trying fitfully to get air, or for the pain to stop, he’s not sure which he’s fighting for more. Something presses into his back, drags up to his head, and a scream comes hurtling out of his throat laced with agony.

And then it’s over, and he’s slumping down on the floor, forehead pressed up against the cold hardwood. There’s a hand in his hair, a soft warmth at his side. Breaths come hoarse and ragged, itching through his dry throat. He coughs, a horrible hacking sound. His palms are flat against the hardwood, but his fingers bend, nails scraping against it softly.

The hand in his hair drifts down to his neck, stays there as sound slowly comes drifting back. “- the dean! Hurry!” The person leans down, and the long locks of brown hair that drift at the edges of Quentins vision tell him it’s Julia. She pressured her cheek to the side of his head, “Its okay. We’re getting help. You’re okay, Q.”

He coughs again, turns his body so he can sit up against the shelf, and she grabs onto his upper arm to help him.

Kady’s staring at him. “Jesus,” she says, and suddenly she’s crouching down in front of him. “That book got you good.” She reaches up, dabs lightly at a spot on his forehead, and her hand comes back coated in blood. She stands up, wiping her hands on his jeans, “I’m gonna go find a first aid kit. You got this?”

Julia nods, squeezing Quentins shoulder. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

He closes his eyes, rests his head up against the shelf. A full ache radiates through his chest in soft dancing echoes. He’s not sure what it is, but there’s something very, very wrong. Maybe with him, maybe with the world. Or maybe this is just another unforeseen consequence of killing a god. Who knows anymore?

“Q,” Julia shakes his shoulder and he opens his eyes again. He furrows his brow, sitting up, because he’s not in the library anymore, and the light shining through the window in the cottage is moonlight rather than the soft sunshine he’d seen when he closed his eyes. Julia looks at him, concerned. “Here,” she murmurs, leaning forward to help him sit up on the couch. She reaches past him and grabs a glass of water, “Drink this.”

He shakes his head, pushing it away.

Something inside him feels wrong. He can’t explain it other than as emptiness. Like something’s been ripped out of him, but he has no idea what it is. It’s different than the depression. A dull, drumming ache in the center of his chest that feels wrong in every way. Like a heart attack but smaller and unending.

“Q,” she says, soft, pulling her knees onto the couch with her as she sits to face him. “You have to drink something. Whatever that was … We don’t have magic to heal you.”

“Something’s _wrong_ ,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. “Something’s really wrong.”

“What is it?”

He shakes his head slow and unsure. His vision goes blurry as tears well up, “I don’t - something’s wrong, Jules. I - oh my god. I can’t -,” he stops, taking quick, deep breaths and bringing a hand up to his chest, scared that whatever it was that happened earlier is happening again.

She wraps her arms around him, brings him in so his head is on her chest, and pets her hand over his hair. “Q, calm down. You’re going to have a panic attack. _Breathe_.”

It doesn’t take long for his breathing to level out, as she rocks him back and forth on the couch. Tears stream down his cheeks in slow, lazy rivers, despite the confusion of not knowing. They sit there until the sun peaks over the horizon, casting pink and orange rays into the sky - the closest any of them get to magic most days - and through the cottage windows. She pulls away, wipes his tears with her thumbs and holds his cheeks in her hands.

“Are you okay?”

He swallows, wincing because his throat is still raw and shrugs. “I - I don’t know.” He reaches up, wraps his fingers around her wrists. “I think something happened. Something terrible, Jules.”

She nods, wipes at the tears that start falling again with her thumbs, “We’ll figure it out. Whatever did this to you is magical … So there’s magic out there somewhere. We just have to find it.”

“What if we find it too late?”

“It’s only too late if we’re dead, Q.”

He doesn’t tell her that he thinks, maybe, somebody else might be dead already. Because that’s his weight to bear, and now isn’t the time to add the stress, or this pain, on anyone else’s shoulders.

*

It’s another two months before they make any progress, and find a way to break through the universes. To get back to Fillory, to their friends. The landing isn’t perfect, they’re too far from the castle, too lost in the scorched woods.

When they break through the barrier with Julia’s magic, land on the dirt, Quentin collapses with a gasp. That hole in his chest, that’s grown larger and larger with each passing day, swallows him up. He lies on the ground, Kady, Julia and Penny - who appeared when they broke through the first magical barrier, surprisingly alive and healthy - stand above him. It’s common at this point, for it to send him spiraling. But he episodes pass, and are never as bad as the first or second ones, and then he’s okay enough to move on.

The first episode Penny sees nearly gives him a heart attack when Quentin collapses with a scream, into his lap and starts shaking uncontrollably, gasping for air and sobbing in the same second. He’s seen six since, knows what to do now, like Julia. So when Quentin stops shaking, he reaches down, pulls him up by the shoulder, gentler than he would have in the past, and offers him support until he can walk on his own.

But something’s wrong, which means they’re in the right place. Dean Fogg predicted that the closer they get to whatever’s doing this to him, the stronger the effects would grow until Quentin comes face to face with the magic inside him. So nobodies surprised when he falls to his knees an hour later, even with Penny’s arm holding most of his weight, and screams like his soul is being ripped from his body. The sound is broken, and angry, filled with the anguish that inhabits the hole in Quentins heart. It lasts nearly a minute, until Penny kneels down next to him, pulls him into his chest, and holds him as he sobs open mouthed into his scarf. When his sobs soften to whimpers, and his body stops shaking so violently, Penny loosens his grip, looks down at him and asks, “You good?”

Quentin swallows, nods. But he doesn’t say anything. His tongue is heavy lead, immovable, and his throat is red hot lava, raw and blistered. He hasn’t actually been able to speak in days. The episodes have stolen his voice, and if he’s at all honest with himself, maybe even his will to go on. He spends most days wondering if he’s cursed, if the gods are repaying him for murdering Ember, but then others, he’s too distracted to think at all. Because something in the world is missing, and it’s not magic. He’s lost something, something important, and it’s eating him whole.

Halfway to the castle, they run into a local who warns them to stay away, that the queen is merciless. But the my trek on, I afraid of what Margo might do to them. Though, it’s clear that her power has driven her crazy without actual magical power.

Nobody takes the time to wonder why Eliot hasn’t kept her in check.

It takes them nearly a week to get across Fillory to the castle. When they do, they’re covered in mud, Quentin can barely stand, and they’re all desperately hungry and thirsty. But they approach the castle doors, weak and ready for a decent nights sleep, when three fairy guards appear, and poof them into the throne room. They land fast and hard on the floor, Quentin falling before Penny and Julia can catch him. They panic for a moment, check to make sure they’re all okay, and then look up to the throne.

A woman with white hair stares them down. “Now how did you get here?” She asks, seemingly as perplexed as they feel. Her eyes flick down to Quentin, even as Penny tries to help him up, “I see the spell does not travel as well as we had assumed. I supposed I should apologize.” A small half smirk appears on her lips, “You did free us Quentin Coldwater, I did not intend to harm you.”

Penny’s gaze snaps up to her, buts it’s Julia who speaks. “You did this?” She demands, taking a forceful step forward. “Fix him!”

“He must accept the truth before it will pass,” the fairy queen murmurs, “Most often it is a clear truth. The spell is intended as a small mercy for the family of soldiers.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Kady asks, as Penny pulls Quentin to his feet, staggering under the weight of him.

The queen sighs, “You’ve come for your friends.”

Quentins legs buckle, but Penny holds him up, groaning as he slips his grip a bit. Quentin clears his theist, wincing as a stinging pain runs through his esophagus. He moves his tongue around, attempts to make a sound at the queen. She watches him, curious, tilting her head.

Penny sighs, turning his attention in the queen even as he tries to hold Quentin up. “He’s trying to say we’ve come for our family. Not friends.”

Her eyebrows lift and she slowly stands from the throne. “Family? The former king and queen you abandoned are your family?”

Quentin nods.

“They’re important,” Kady agrees, even if a bit reluctantly, “Where are they?”

“The one eyed former queen of Fillory is locked away, safe and sound,” the queen says, “She’s gone a bit mad, I’m afraid.”

Penny turns to Quentin, “Can you shut up for five seconds? I can’t fucking hear anything if you think a thousand questions at a tim - okay. Okay.” Quentin glares at him through half lidded eyes as he turns his attention back on the queen. “What did you do to him? This spell. Fix him.”

“Only he can fix himself, traveler.” She moves towards them, steps gracefully, almost as if she’s floating just above the stone. She watches Quentin carefully, tilting her head. “You would like to know the spell?” She asks, “It may hurt more to know than the sorry state you now find yourself in.”

“Honestly lady,” Julia says, exasperated, “What the fuck can hurt more than what he’s gone through? He can’t speak. He can barely fucking breathe. He’s weak, and he cries so often none of us know how to sleep because we need to be there for him. It doesn’t get worse than what he’s going through.”

The queen nods, raising her eyebrows, “I see.” She turns her attention on Penny, “Set him on the floor, traveler.” Penny looks at Julia and Kady, they both nod, so he slowly leans down to set Quentin on the floor, kneels next to him to hold him up so he doesn’t fall to the side. “Very well. You wish to know the spell.” She moves forward, stops just a few feet in front of them, and looks down at Quentin, almost like she pities him. “Your king had many requests. But, there was only one that we could grant.”

She takes a step closer, leans down in front of him. “The spell did not go as it should have, I suspect your worlds lack of magic as a fault, but I will accept responsibility for what I’ve done to you. I apologize for what you’re too experience.”

“Just tell him the damn spell!” Penny exclaims.

She sends a glare in his direction, “You speak to me with respect or you face a fate worse than death.”

“Worse than his?” Julia questions.

The queen makes a face, turning her attention back on Quentin. “The spell is to quell the curiosity of a soldiers family. Should a soldier meet his fate on the battlefield, their significant love, those with which heart and soul is shared, will experience the loss. It is a grieving spell,” she says, “So those who love don’t live on hoping the dead that they love return.”

They stare at her for a long moment, before Kady steps forward, demands, “What the fuck does that mean?”

The queen doesn’t respond; she keeps her eyes locked on Quentin.

“It means,” Julia says, soft, “She killed Eliot.”

The queen smiles up at her, then, nodding. “I did. The high king must die before Fillory will accept a new ruler. Even without her god.”

They stare back at her silently. None of them dare move. The only sound in the room is that if Quentins raspy breathing, in, out, in, out. One by one, each of them turn their eyes down on him. They know what this knowledge is doing to him, they’re just waiting for him to react.

The queen stares at him, watching, waiting. “Quentin Coldwater,” she says after a few minutes of drawn out silence. “Eliot Waugh, high king of Fillory was executed three earth months after you, and your friends, abandoned him here.”

“Wait a fucking minute -,”

“Silence, traveler. He needs to know everything otherwise he will not be able to pull himself from this.” She snaps her gaze up to him, “Or would you prefer your friend live on in agony for the rest of his, shall I say - short, life?” An eyebrow perks, and she looks back down at Quentin. “As royalty he had a choice in the method in which he was executed. He did not choose.”

Julia takes a hesitant step forward. “H-How -,”

“How did the former high king die?” The queen responds, without bothering to turn her curious gaze off of Quentin. “He drowned. We burned the remains, and placed them in the tomb with all former high kings.” She glances up for a moment, “His death with noble, and he did not give up his kingdom without a fight. He was an honorable king.”

Penny takes a step forward, letting go of Quentin, with a ferocious glare on his face, and the queen eyes him warily, but before either of them can say anything, Quentin makes a small sound, easing itself out of him. A low, heart wrenching whine, as he slowly forces himself to his knees.

And then he says the first thing he’s said in weeks: “You …” he gasps, his tongue heavy and thick, and throat fighting every motion other than breathing, “B - Bitch!” The word comes out as a forced, almost scream, as he works his way to crawl towards her, painfully slow as his heart racks against his ribs in fast, angry pumps.

“Q,” Julia says, “Stop -,”

The queen holds up her hand, watches Quentin with mild amusement. “Your king is dead, Quentin Coldwater. Say this truth, and you will be free.”

“Y - you’re -,” He hacks a cough, crawling closer to her, tears streaming down his face.

The darkness that swallowed his heart is working it’s way through his body. The hole, so black and angry, is stealing every part of him that his mind can reach. Steals the smiles, and the laughter. The nights of drinking, the jokes. The talks in the middle of the night at the cottage. The hugs and lingering touches. Stares across campus, things said to the whole room that are directed at one person, and one person only. Late night kisses in the middle of a war, featherlight touches, and desperate pulls for more.

It aches in ways Quentin never imagined possible.

The tears slide down his cheeks in a frenzied rush, desperate to make room for more, as half grunted sobs that he can’t control work their way out of his throat. Every part of his world is caving in on him, crushing him, but if he just gets to her, gets her to admit she’s lying, because Eliot’s here - in this castle, he has to be - then it’ll be okay. He crawls across the floor, pulling himself by his elbows as she takes slow, deliberate steps backwards, taunting him. He screams, the sound echoing through the throne room, an ugly sound filled with every unsaid thing, and every wasted moment.

It feels like his heart is being ripped into a million shreds inside his chest.

Penny, Kady and Julia watch on, unsure of what to do.

“Y - you’re l - l,” His hands shakes where they attempt to grip onto the stone floor, tips of his fingers starting to bleed where they’ve clawed against its rough edges. “L - lying,” he sobs.

Penny looks at Julia, suddenly much more worried.

The queen stares down at him, curiously. “The spell has had adverse results,” She says, “Much worse than I could have predicted.”

“Why the fuck would you do this to him?” Kady exclaims, waving a hand at him, “Look at him! How could this spell ever be anything less than disgusting and cruel?”

“It is meant to initiate immediate grieving. Once you accept that you have lost the one you love, the spell fades and you move on.” Her eyes flicker over to Kady, “It has been used to soothe the pain of war for longer than you can imagine. We did not anticipate -,”

“But why cast the spell?” Julia asks, “Why cast the spell at all?”

“Your former high king requested his friends not live on hoping that they may reunite with him. It is a noble request, and we chose to honor his death. He fought valiantly, and deserved a soldiers death. The only two affected by the spell, it would seem, are Quentin Coldwater, and the former high queen.”

Julia nods. “Which begs the question - why didn’t you kill Margo?”

The queen takes one of the steps up, stares down at the bloody, sobbing mess of Quentin. “She proved useful,” She murmurs. “Until she went mad.”

Finally, Quentin stops pulling himself forward. Goes limp on the floor, blood seeping into the crevices of the stone, and into the material of his clothes. His messenger bag lay forgotten, as Penny’s feet, and he stares up at the queen, broken and empty. The tears flow freely, and his mouth hangs up, throat working as he tries to form words.

“Q?”

“Silence,” The queen says, tilting her head down at him.

He stares at her with unseeing eyes. The light shining through the back of the castle turn her into a silhouette, reminiscent of all the times he’d walked into this room, and smiled up at Eliot’s ethereal shape. Commented on how he almost seems like a fallen angel, standing at the balcony, all darkness surrounded by the light. How Eliot had laughed and said he wasn’t too far off. Their hug goodbye, just up the stairs next to the thrones, just hours after he’d killed Ember. Before they knew there were consequences for killing gods.

And the vision morphs, dancing until there’s a figure in the distance, laid back on the stones outside the front of Brakebills, basking in the soft sun, as he smoke a cigarette. The quiet, contemplate stare as he looked Quentin over, before deciding he was worth his time. Soft curls dance in the sunlight, tousled by the wind. He can almost hear Eliot’s quiet sigh of indignation, the mutter curse, wondering if he can spell the window to leave his hair alone. Chiming laughter, as Margo joins him, stands by his side, looks up at him with that smile just for Eliot, and makes a quip.

Beneath the screaming pain, he feels his heart flutter with the memories of laughter. He is a leaf on the wind, waiting to fall, and find itself crushed by nature and all that life is.

And then, the stunning revelation that stops his heart, and stills his lungs. He’s the reason Eliot’s gone. He chokes on the very thought, as every good memory is sucked away into the light, disappearing into the queens dark silhouette. He coughs, desperate for air, but no sound comes out. Bloodied hands come up, grab at his throat, claw at the skin of his neck, desperate for air. The edges of his vision go red, and he thinks, for a moment, this is it …

Eliot’s kneeling in front of him, nothing more than a mirage, blurry and muffled, but his hand ghosts along Quentin’s cheek, and he offers that small smile that he saved just for Quentin. “Breathe, you utter idiot,” He whispers, though he sounds as if he’s under water, far away, and in just the next room, all at once. He gasps in, long and withholding, the sound angry and desperate as he sucks in air. The mirage of Eliot stays for just a moment, before he blows away with the wind, and Quentin’s heart slows. It isn’t the first time he’s seen him in the past few months, but he has a feeling it’ll be the last.

He forces himself to breathe: in, 1, 2, 3, out. Repeat. Slow, and stuttering until his vision clears of everything but the tears.

He rolls onto his back, stares up at the decaying flowers up on the ceiling, the vine work that Eliot had pointed out to him a dozen times, wondering if it were alive, wondering if it could, see everything that happens in the castle. Quentin’s breath come heavy and tumbling through him, he’s shivering, shaking as he pulls his arms around to cross them over his stomach, which aches with more than hunger.

He can hear the others speaking to the queen, but his blood rushes through his ears, heart pumping hard, as he works his way through the fog. He breathes in deep, tries desperately to get a hold of himself. The tears continue to seep, sinking into his hair, and as they slip into the strands, it almost feels like hand, gently raking it’s fingers through to comfort him. Like Eliot did.

Eliot.

He curls up on his side. The excruciating darkness is slinking away, hanging on to the shadows, waiting to strike again, but he thinks the thought he can’t bear to think, thinks it as loud as he can, and then, in between soft sobs, between the tears and the shuddering of his body, he says it out loud:

“ _Eliot’s dead_.”

The words are but a whisper on the wind, but they linger in the air around him, force themselves into his heart and soul, works through every inch of blood stream. They sing a chorus with the wind dancing around the room. And then there are three people crowding in around him, kneeling next to him. One of them pulls him into his lap, pets his hair, holds him as his body shakes. A paid of hands holds onto his left arm, squeezing comfortably, while a second paid grabs his right hand, allows him to squeeze as tight as he can.

Above him, just beyond Penny’s face, he sees the silhouette of the queen stare down at him, watching, waiting - for what, he doesn’t know.

The words crawl up his skin, sink into him. And he says it again, the words broken, and he’s not even sure if anyone can understand him. Eliot’s dead. Eliot’s dead.

_Eliot’s dead._

And he closes his eyes, tries to imagine a world where it isn’t true. But the darkness has faded, and with it, it’s taken the smiling mirage.

_Eliot’s dead._


End file.
